


what could i have said to raise you from the dead

by desmondkilometers (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Reincarnation, Shroud of Eden (Assassin's Creed), Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but living isn't the right word in this case, i would tag this as desmond miles lives, implied not-quite-alcoholism, inspired by monkey's paw, kinda fucked up tbh, no happy ending, the shaundes is implied, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/desmondkilometers
Summary: Fact: Desmond Miles isdead. Desmond Miles died to save the world on December 21, 2012, and he’snever coming back.No. That’s not right.Fact: Desmond Miles died to save the world on December 21, 2012.There. That’s better. The rest is up in the air.
Relationships: Shaun Hastings & Desmond Miles, Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	what could i have said to raise you from the dead

**Author's Note:**

> idk how i got here but it involved an energy drink and lots of incoherent 2am bullet points in the notes app of my phone  
> pls heed the warnings this is seriously some dark shit ~~even though i threw in some softness and one (1) gay joke bc who do u think i am~~
> 
> heavily inspired by [the monkey's paw](https://americanliterature.com/author/w-w-jacobs/short-story/the-monkeys-paw), which isn't even that great as far as short stories go, but still haunts me at night just because of the ending.
> 
> title from fourth of july by sufjan stevens

  
  


As much as history is subjective, as much as the truth has been twisted and modified or simply slipped through the cracks over time, Shaun likes facts.

They’re hard to come by these days, so he covets them, he holds close what little certainty he can find in his life. Sure, he likes being kept on his toes, and he lives for the thrill of research, which all too often entails everything just short of facts, but he has to have something to hold onto.

It’s right there in the mantra of the Assassins. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.

There are things that are certain enough that he will call them truths, though, if only to soothe his own―admittedly very mortal and, thus, very fragile in some particular ways―mind.

Fact: Abstergo is in possession of the body of Desmond Miles. (Shaun doesn’t like that word, it implies objectification of what is being possessed, it implies that the object of possession is a  _ thing _ and not a  _ being _ .) 

Fact: Abstergo used to be in possession of a First Civilization artifact known as the Shroud of Eden. 

Fact: that Shroud was destroyed in a laboratory explosion. 2011. Paris.

Fact: there’s another Shroud, and the Templars are looking for it.

And this one is not so much a fact as a rumor, but there’s evidence to support it: the Shrouds are capable of bringing dead bodies back to life.

Shaun is more or less in shape, and he’s got some rusty parkour skills, but...well...he’s not an Assassin for his athleticism. He’s an Assassin because he’s smart enough see the connections between things that people don’t want to be drawn, and because he’s foolish enough to go and draw those connections anyways. 

They find it in 2015, in the vault under Buckingham Palace. Drones bearing the names of their dead comrades―and who needs ancient artifacts to bring a dead man back to life, if only you hold onto his name and memories?―watch and record as things go to hell,  _ again _ , they always do, and in the end the Templars get away with the Shroud, because Shaun isn’t about to let his best friend die just to keep that thing out of their hands for some indeterminate but most likely fleeting period of time. 

He wonders what they’re going to do with it, and in a fucked-up sort of way that he recognizes as the driving force behind every single idiotic and suicidal thing he’s ever done, he wonders if they still have Desmond’s body.

Rebecca makes it out alive, with a new scar and a fresh dose of her fierce, determined anger. She’s tired, Shaun can see it in the deepening, darkening circles under her eyes. None of them can keep this up forever. 

He doesn’t think about the Shroud again, not for a while. The third anniversary of Desmond’s death finds him in some London pub he doesn’t bother to remember the name of, wedged in a corner at one end of the bar and nursing a whiskey mixed with coffee. The wall is to his back, and he can see most of the building―a strategic vantage point, and a way to ensure his solitude. He visibly cringes as he takes a long sip of his drink, but he doesn’t give a shit anymore, even though it doesn’t taste great and he can hear Rebecca chiding him, even though he knows Desmond wouldn’t want him to mourn like this. No, he’s not even mourning, he might as well just be sulking in pity, and he doesn’t know whether it’s pity for himself or for Desmond. 

Part of him wishes he could have done this, gone to a bar, with Desmond. Had a drink together. Let Desmond show off his bartending skills. And he  _ knows _ , he  _ knows _ Desmond knew what he was getting into, he knows Desmond knew  _ exactly _ what he was doing when he sacrificed his life, so it’s definitely not Shaun’s place to be doing anything but making sure his death wasn’t in vain. 

Still. 

He lost something on that day, too. 

People come and go in the bar, some near him but keeping their distance―he sat at the end of the bar on purpose, to be alone. It gets late. He’s not sure if it’s still December 21; he could check the time on this week’s burner phone, but it’s silenced in his pocket right now, and for good reason.

A man slides into the seat next to him, and he holds back the most bitter, scalding remarks he can come up with―which, being who he is, are exceptionally cruel and unusual.

He keeps his head down, glancing sidelong to see if the man has a weapon, if he’s a Templar, or if Shaun should just be keeping to himself for the usual reasons―not wanting to interact with people, especially not  _ now. _ What he sees makes something light up inside his chest, acrid smoke crawling up his throat and strangling him. It’s not good, not at all. He’s so caught up staring at the burn marks all up and down the man’s right arm at first, too close to his own, that he almost misses the all too familiar tattoos running the length of the man’s  _ other _ arm. He memorized those tattoos  _ years  _ ago, and even if he couldn’t draw them if he were asked, he’ll never be able to  _ not _ recognize them.

Glass―and who the hell serves  _ coffee _ in a glass, even if it’s iced and mixed with alcohol?―shatters, and glimmering mahogany liquid leaks all over the bar, staining Shaun’s hands. He almost trips as his feet scramble for purchase on the floor, shoving his bar stool backwards. He looks up and over, his back straighter than anything about him has ever been, suddenly stone cold sober.

Desmond Miles stares back at him.

“ _ No, _ ” Shaun says, and it’s not like  _ No bloody way! _ , or  _ Noooooo, that’s impossible! _ , or anything like that. It’s firm, harsh. It’s a  _ rejection _ , because he’s done his goddamn research, and he knows exactly who―or rather,  _ what _ ―is sitting at the bar at his side.

Their eyes meet, one man who’s been dead for three years and one who sometimes wishes he’d met the same fate. Shaun never got the chance to look into Desmond’s eyes as much, or as intently, as he would have liked to, but he’s always been an expert at catching glances of things he isn’t supposed to, without people noticing. Desmond Miles has― _ had _ ; three years and Shaun still catches himself slipping up sometimes―brown eyes, and Shaun thinks anyone who would say brown eyes are boring would take that statement back after looking into Desmond’s. They were the color of oak, strong and unyielding; soil, rich and full of life; an eagle’s juvenile feathers, not yet molted into those capable of flight. Towards the end, when he used the Apple, they were vibrant, gold,  _ unnatural _ , and it is these eyes that Shaun now finds himself gazing into. Bloodshot corneas, murky irises, eerily reflective pupils. His skin is sallow, eyes sunken into his cheekbones, but he’d looked like that  _ before _ he died, when the Bleeds and the amount of time he was spending in the Animus and all the stress combined were enough that he often forget to eat or sleep enough―or sometimes, just didn’t get the chance to do so.

“ _ No _ ,” Shaun spits again, and people are staring at them, the  _ bartender _ is staring at them; he fumbles in his pocket and slams the first bill he finds down on the counter right in the middle of the mess he’s made. Those bloody inhuman golden eyes follow him all the while.

Shaun runs out of the bar and doesn’t look back.

* * *

According to his burner phone, it’s nearly midnight, nearly December 22. He has three missed calls―probably Rebecca. He considers, for a moment, smashing it as he would if he were through with this phone, destroying it on the off chance that someone is tracking him―how the hell  _ else _ would Desmond, that  _ creature _ masquerading as Desmond―have found him? 

Something tells him that this isn’t the right explanation at all. 

There are too few facts here―none at all, in fact. Just one, just a single certainty, would be enough, but he has none. He is grasping for answers, and all he’s finding are more questions.

Fact: Desmond Miles is  _ dead. _ Desmond Miles died to save the world on December 21, 2012, and he’s  _ never coming back _ .

No. That’s not right.

Fact: Desmond Miles died to save the world on December 21, 2012.

There. That’s better. The rest is up in the air.

Shaun wanders the streets of London, letting his feet and his memories carry him, confident enough in his own knowledge of the city that, even though he continues to glance around and keeps his hidden blade primed, he gets lost in thought. Thought and paranoia, that is. Bit of an oxymoron, if you ask him, since  _ thought _ implies the presence of logic, and his paranoia knows no such thing.

He sits on a bench by the Thames, and stares at the distorted golden reflections of streetlights rippling across the black water, and tries not to think about how much it reminds him of those horrible eyes.

The pounding in his heart has only just begun to subside when it picks up again―a body slides into the bench next to him, sinuous and fluid, melting out of the shadows. He still has the hoodie, still wears it like he always did―open to show the front of his T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. 

He just stares at Shaun, eyes illuminated by the irregular glow of streetlights. In this light, his face looks sharper, even more unnatural, alternating parts in shadow. 

Shaun briefly considers striking with the hidden blade, just to see what will happen. But Desmond, or whoever,  _ whatever _ this is, just sits there, doesn’t make a move. It takes Shaun a moment to realize what’s off, but once he sees it he can’t  _ un _ see it―Desmond’s chest does not rise or fall. There is no cloud in front of his slightly parted lips, no warmth in this cold night. He does not breathe. He does not blink. Shaun can’t tell if Desmond’s heart is even beating, and he’s too afraid right now to reach out and touch the man’s throat, chest, wrist,  _ anything _ . 

He doesn’t have it in him to be angry, though, so he just sighs, and feels everything that’s been building up inside of him for three years come out of his lungs and dissipate in the chilled evening air as his breath clouds up in front of him. 

“They used the Shroud on you.” 

No questioning. Just fact. 

Desmond says nothing, only tilts his head a little. If Shaun didn’t know better, he’d think those golden eyes almost look pitying, or like they’re hiding something just beneath the surface.

“What is this?” He throws his hands up in the air, glaring up at the vast, uncaring sky. “Closure? Is that what this is supposed to be? ‘Cause this is absolute  _ shite _ as far as closure goes,” he snaps, and then he immediately feels a little bad about it.

Nothing.

“You don’t have long, do you?” he asks, quieter, looking back at Desmond. “I know you aren’t breathing.”

He moves, for the first time, and Shaun jolts when his hand―the one that’s slightly misshapen, marred with burns―covers Shaun’s own. It’s cold, clammy, and as Desmond presses Shaun’s hand to his chest, Shaun feels his own heart drop into his stomach, because there’s nothing where Desmond should have a heartbeat. Just an emptiness, a lack where there should be resonance within his ribcage.

“Why would they do this to you?” he asks, hand rising from that silent chest to turn around and curl around Desmond’s, and even though the other man is barely receptive, barely  _ alive _ , he slots his fingers in between Shaun’.s

Desmond just looks like he’s in pain, simple as that. Whether it’s him specifically, or just the way the Shroud works in general, it’s clear to Shaun that this is not something that’s supposed to happen―this, whatever it is, is  _ not  _ natural, and that’s not a designation that Shaun throws around lightly, but it’s a fact in his mind.

If he even  _ can _ speak, Desmond chooses not to. He just holds onto Shaun’s hand, and part of Shaun wishes he’d never come back if it’s just going to be like this, if it’s just going to be impermanent―because he’s going to leave soon, Shaun knows it, he can  _ feel  _ it―but he refuses to entertain those thoughts when there is still something so tangible to hold onto. 

Even if that thing has no heartbeat to indicate that it is alive.

Fact: if this is what the universe thinks closure looks like, Shaun never wants any goddamn closure ever again.

His eyes are still that odd golden color, murky and bright all at once like a glistening piece of rotting flesh. Now that Shaun studies them more closely, though, they aren’t threatening. No, just curious, pained, maybe even sad. 

“You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?” Shaun says, “and I’m never going to see you again.”

Desmond gives Shaun no response, not even a nod. Maybe it’s just the heat from Shaun’s body traveling into what’s left of Desmond’s own, or maybe it’s his imagination, or maybe Desmond’s hand  _ is _ a little warmer than it had been where he’s still holding onto Shaun’s. 

“I suppose you aren’t even really alive, now. I’ve done my research on the Shroud. Never had any concrete facts, but when do I ever have those, yeah? It brings people back, but only for a little while, and they aren’t quite right.”

Desmond surprises Shaun, then, body shifting, and for a moment Shaun thinks he’s gone and collapsed on the spot or something, but he’s just leaning over, dropping his head onto Shaun’s shoulder, pressing himself against Shaun’s side, and it  _ hurts _ , it hurts even more than the security footage of his body being dragged away, it hurts even more than three years of moving on without him. 

They sit there, one heart beating between the two of them, cold body pressed against warm, hands clasped together. Somewhere across the river, a clock chimes midnight.

“I’m going to miss you, Des,” Shaun says; “I  _ have _ missed you. I suppose you can’t cheat death, though, and...I understand why you did it. You―” at this, his voice breaks a little “―you saved all of us. All seven billion and then some.”

Desmond’s head turns, and he looks up into Shaun’s eyes, and his expression is soft, almost pleading―it’s the most emotion he’s shown, though his eyes are still the same color as the reflections of the streetlamps in the Thames.

“You deserve to rest,” Shaun says, and this time Desmond is the one to squeeze  _ his _ hand, to pull him up from the bench. 

They walk, together, the short distance to the iron guardrail that stands between them and the river. Shaun already knows what’s going to happen, and he’s selfish, he wants to pull Desmond close and insist he stay, he wants to hold tight to this body that should have been laid to rest years ago and convince himself that it still lives on, but he doesn’t do any of that.

He leans on the guardrail, feels the cold metal and the cold air and Desmond’s cold hand all caressing his skin. 

Desmond’s hand slips out of his own, and he climbs the guardrail as easily as he would have when he was alive, and Shaun feels as if he’s watching a ghost, an illusion, a specter. 

He balances there, so easily, swaying but not falling, in a careful equilibrium. He turns one last time, to look at Shaun, and when the light catches his face, Shaun swears his eyes are brown again,  _ swears _ he blinks just once, and smiles a little, that scar on his lip tugged upwards in the same jagged way it always used to. 

As far as leaps of faith go, it’s not much of one, just a few meters down, and his body hits the black water. There’s a ripple, a chill spreading through the air and permeating every one of Shaun’s bones all at once, and then there’s nothing. Nothing at all.

Fact: under the right conditions, a body lost in the River Thames will float all the way out to sea, where it will likely never be recovered.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i may have taken some artistic liberty with the abilities of the shrouds, but total accuracy is a sacrifice i'm willing to make for the sake of my necromancy shenanigans


End file.
